His therapist

Untitled Episode4

I was shown to my room, one of the many rooms in the hallway upstairs. There was a vanity mirror, table and chair. A gigantic double bed with white sheets, different art pieces on the wall, cute soft pillows. The room was 3 times bigger than my room at home. I opened the door leading to the bathroom and was baffled. The bathroom was ten times my bathroom at home, a huge tub that was enough for 6 big people, different skincare products from different brands, double wide showers. There was a big walk-in closet as well. I sighed and went back to my room. I lay on the bed looking at the intricate designs of the ceiling. I tossed and turned as sleep deserted me. I was in a strange house, on a strange bed against my will. What about the people who needed my help? How do I convince Dante Moretti to let me go? I stared out the window, at the iron gates and tall woods surrounding the property. There was no escape. I was still lost in thought when I heard a knocking on my door. A woman in her fifties stepped into my room carrying a pile of folded clothes. Her name was Nina. “You should get dressed, Mr. Moretti dislikes tardiness.” She dropped the clothes on the bed and walked out. Well, Mr. Moretti, I can kiss my ass. It was my pleasure to bask in the wide tub, prep my skin, test different products and have the best time of my life. I washed up my undies which left me with nothing to wear beneath the dress Nina kept for me. I pulled the short wooly flay gown over my head, it suited me like my suit was taken. So many things came as a surprise to me, but I knew I would get no answer if I asked. By the time I was done, I was probably an hour late but I didn't care. A guard escorted me through the mansion hallway towards Dante’s office. He was standing by the window nursing a cup of coffee when I came. “You’re late,” he said. “I didn't realize I was placed on a timing schedule," I said, crossing my hands confidently on my chest. The guard who escorted me sucked in a breath, I guess nobody dared to sassy with him. Well, i didn't care, he took another sip of his coffee and dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand. Now we were alone, I felt the familiar fear of him creeping in slowly, but I pressed it down. I needed to be professional, I couldn't be afraid of my client. “Sit,” he ordered. Such arrogance. I sat across from him, the atmosphere shifted, becoming tense as we stared at each other. I straightened into a professional pose. I needed to be in my best mode to face a man like Dante Moretti. “What made you think you need therapy? Nobody gets up in the morning and decides to get therapy.” We stared silently at each other for some time. For a moment I thought he wouldn't answer me. “Nightmares.” “What?” I asked, but I didn't understand him. His jaws tightened, I guessed he hated to repeat himself.

“I can't sleep, I have nightmares.” I stared at him for some time. I knew there were a lot of things that could make a man like Dante to seek therapy. It must be unbearable. I felt a strange twinge of guilt and compassion for him before chasing it down. I doubted a man like him needed my pity for anything. “What are your nightmares about?” His eyes met for a brief period of time. "That's enough for today.” He said, a silence settled between us before he pushed back his chair and got up to the piano. I watched his long thick fingers press the keys soon they were flying over them and a beautiful soulful melody filled the air. I stared at his profile as he played, his straight nose and sharp jawline. The soft swell of his lips, he tilted his head backwards as the notes went higher and higher. A series of emotions flashed and disappeared on his face before I could fully interpret them. He looked so beautiful and human at that moment, and I was afraid to interrupt. The notes were so soulful and painful, it wrapped around me like a cloak of pain. My throat hurt from trying to hold down the tears, I needed to be professional and I chided myself. What sort of pain was he hiding in his armor? What kind of man was he? What was his story? I was struck, Dante Moretti won't cease to baffle me. I felt the tears clouding my vision as I watched him play, this wasn't just a piece. He was trying to tell me something. He turned his head towards me and my breath got stuck in my throat at the intensity of the emotions I found in them. Then he stopped

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